


How Your Skin Was Softly Shed

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Animal Play, Community: kink_bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Drake is infuriating; you never know if you want to kiss her, punch her, or take care of her. Luckily, Gene's good at multiple choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Your Skin Was Softly Shed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, for the prompt "animal play", which gave me such fits, you don't even know. Basically, this was a challenge, from start to finish, in which I wanted to write a story vastly different from anything I've written before - i.e. sweet, nonexplicit fluff. I hope it turned out all right. Title from the Decemberists' "Red Right Ankle".

He's never met anyone as infuriating as DI Alex Drake.

She takes none of anyone's lip, gives out plenty in return, and thinks her flat's a bloody way station for Thatcherite wankers. She slags off on him for not respecting women, then when he tries to be a sodding gentleman, suddenly her bad sexual decisions are all his fault.

It would be fine, if she'd bloody dress like a proper DI. Not shoulder-baring shirts and push-up bras (he knows underwire when he sees it, not that she needs the help) and stiletto boots. Not that dress she showed up in, black stockings and heels and one of the highest hemlines he's ever seen. And that fucking corset. Jesus. He's never been one to agree with serial-killing religious nuts, but Burns had been right: women like Alex are filthy; not much could get her clean.

Not that he doesn't want to try, especially since he's been given the opportunity.

*****

They'd left the kids to their own devices - Ray and Chris mucking about with lighters and a bottle of Sambuca, Shaz humoring them and ensuring no fires were set - and escaped upstairs to Alex's flat. She's well into her cups, but she doesn't look drunk, just relaxed. She sprawls out on her couch and pulls him down next to her.

"Still think I've shagged an entire rugby team?" she asks, not-looking at him.

He turns her chin towards him. "Never thought that. One or two, maybe. Not an entire team. You're not that much of a slut."

She rolls her eyes, and rolls to her back. "What is it with you and women? We are not all divisible into 'good-girl virgin' and 'dirty whore'. I like sex, Gene, why does that make me a bad person?"

He can't answer her, even if her psychiatry bollocks is right.

"Just think you're worth more than that. Should let a bloke take care of you, not get a quick shag, then walk in and out, thinking he can have it on tap."

She knows he's referring to the wanker in the red braces, and she blushes in embarrassment. He may not be a pretty boy willing to let her waltz all over him, but he's got braces and she's welcome to twang them.

"Oh, and you're the way to go? Neanderthal who'll never let me hear the end of it at work tomorrow morning if I shag him?"

He's tired of the fighting, of her sodding superiority, and maybe it's the champagne that makes him pull her upright and wind a hand in her curls. "Never know until you try, Bolls. C'mere, let me prove that even Neanderthals know how to please a woman."

*****

He takes her into her bedroom, and he can tell she's dying to snark at him, make a comment about his seduction prowess, but he presses a finger to her lips.

"Just once, all right? Won't hold it against you if we don't live up to expectations, and nought'll be said about it tomorrow or any other day."

She looks at him, eyes widened and curious, and lets him do as he likes. Sits down on the side of the bed and watches him kneel at her feet. He removes her boots - wicked, heeled things that he'd love to fuck her in, but won't right now - and tugs off her socks, trying not to smile at her pink toenails. He motions for her to remove her shirt - because he hasn't earned it, not yet - and she tosses it behind him. He was right, she's got bloody spectacular tits, but she does wear a push-up bra. Thumbs open the button on her jeans and draws down the zip, enjoying the way she whimpers a little, sucks in her stomach as he trails fingertips over her navel. She gasps a little as he tugs her jeans down, looking his fill at what are still some of the best legs he's ever seen.

As much as he hates to break the silence, he has to ask about the next bit.

"Trust me, Alex?"

She bites her lip, oddly endearing and vulnerable, sitting there in her bra and knickers. "I suppose I have to, so long as I'm here."

There's no answer to that, really, that doesn't end with her punching him again, and he's not about to muck this up. So as much as it drives him mad, he goes slow. Presses his mouth to her bare shoulder and feels her shudder under his lips as he kisses his way up her neck. She makes this gorgeous shivery moan, high in her throat. It just might be worth the effort he's putting in. If it makes her trust him, makes her start taking him seriously, it's worth it.

He begins touching her at her ankles. She jumps at first, a little startled, and blinks at him in tipsy confusion while he strokes his fingers over her skin. Slowly, she begins to relax, watching as his thumb sweeps over the bone of her ankle, his hand wrapping around her calf. Just a light touch at first, then her skin warms to him, her toes arching into a point when he reaches a sensitive spot right at the back of her knee.

She's making this beautiful low purr, deep in her throat, stretched out luxuriously on her red sheets. If he were a more artistic man, he'd want to paint her, just as she is now, lost in abandon. As his hand trails higher, up her lower thigh, brushing the curve of her arse, she gasps, then moans in despair as he stops in his tracks.

"Please," she begs, and while he'd love to indulge her, he wants her to make that lovely purr again.

"Shh, Bolls, take care of you. Don't you worry."

*****

There's a protest forming in her throat, but it dies out when his hands tangle in her hair. He threads his hands through dark curls, scratching her scalp a little, and she practically melts. Combs her hair back from her face - which is currently buried in the pillow, pretending she's not making lovely little pants and cries - and drags his nails down her neck. Her back arches in this taut curve, and he can smell her in the air.

He'd love nothing more than to fuck her, just like this, all soft and purring, just drag her to her hands and knees - but he won't. There's something in him that's stuttering out a warning, that she's not ready, that he's not ready, and he doesn't want to listen to it. But as he leans down to test the waters, he hears her softly exhale. It's a sleepy, contented sound, something he hasn't heard in far too long.

She trusts him, and that changes everything.

He tugs the sheets up around her, stroking a hand down her back and listening to her contented sighs. She curls up against his side, hand resting at the bend of his knee like a teddy bear. It's sodding confirmed, DI Alex Drake is possibly the most confusing, frustrating woman he's ever met.

They'll probably kill each other, but there are worse ways to go.


End file.
